


PTA Wars: The Cupcake Strikes Back

by cinnabelly



Category: One Direction
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Niall is Niall, and zayn draws cartoons on cakes for a living, because what else does my life have to live for, harry bakes, liam is probably a member of the secret service, louis teaches footie, no cupcakes were harmed in the creation of this mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 12:57:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5627398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnabelly/pseuds/cinnabelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have an idea,” Zayn says triumphantly. “But we might technically be cheating. But we also might technically not be cheating. Sound okay?”</p><p>Harry chews on the side of his mouth for a moment, hesitating. Then he remembers his poor cupcakes arses’. Cupcakes don’t even have arses!</p><p>“Lay it on me, Cake Picasso.”</p><p> Or, based off a prompt from an anon. The epic dad battle of Harry Styles vs Louis Tomlinson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	PTA Wars: The Cupcake Strikes Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [that anon and also Destiny for saying I'd write 20k](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=that+anon+and+also+Destiny+for+saying+I%27d+write+20k).



> This is incredibly short and incredibly self-indulgent. Much like a cupcake. Badumtis.  
> Come say hello to me on tumblr @louserz !! (or come beat me up)

  
  


Niall suggests it after footie practice, crushed can of Pepsi in one hand and folded lawn chair under the opposite arm. Harry is struggling with his own chair, much to Jamie’s mortification as he watches his dad struggle. Harry gets it eventually, sweat sheening on his forehead, and dammit it’s hot and he’s not twenty anymore. He turns to Niall, chewing on his bottom lip, throwing a glance at where Jamie is now kicking the ball to Abby. 

“You think it would help?” 

Niall shrugs. “It helped Liam’s kid, didn’t it?” 

Harry mulls it over a bit longer, knocking his sunglasses onto his nose from where they’d been resting in his hair. “Alright, I guess it did. I’ll text Liam later and ask him about when the next meeting is.” 

Niall grins, clapping him on the back, probably preparing to spout more Irish wisdom. Abby starts to complain about the heat, though, and how awful her feet are going to smell if they keep waiting around. She’s barely seven and she’s already got a little mouth on her, and Niall seems genuinely delighted by the development. 

“You’re feet do stink, kiddo,” Niall agrees, tossing his Pepsi can into a bin and hoisting her up against his hip. He gives Harry one last, pointed look. “Text. Liam.” 

Harry nods his head dutifully, smiling. “Aye, aye Cap.” 

Harry drops the bomb later that night, when Jamie is properly sated with an ice cream cone and Pirates of the Caribbean on telly. Harry scootches closer on the couch, brushing the wispy blonde curls from his head. Jamie barely even moves, just shifts his tiny body the barest bit toward his dad. He’s been nodding off into his cone for the past ten minutes, a rainbow of sprinkles sticky on his chin. Harry thinks it’s hilarious, hasn’t offered him a napkin yet, and if that makes him a bad dad? Well tough. 

“Hey, J?” Harry whispers quietly, still stroking along his forehead. Jamie hums lowly, eyelashes fluttering as Jack Sparrow says something witty. “How would you feel about me becoming part of your school PTA, yeah? Like, to help you adjust to the move and maybe even talk to some parents about scheduling some playdates.” 

Jamie is eight years old, probably a little old for playdates by now, but Harry’s got about zero leverage other than he’ll probably be baking cookies more often than he already does. He doesn’t want to bribe his son, though. Yet. 

Harry holds his breath, halting his strokes while Jamie inhales softly through his nose, tiny nostrils flaring. “Yeah, sure,” he mumbles, then promptly passes out. Harry has to grab his soggy cone before it makes an unfortunate faceplant into their leather couch. 

Harry can’t bite back a smile while he wets a few napkins and wipes Jamie’s chin off, tossing the melted ice cream cone into the bin. He heaves Jamie into his arms, his head lolling into the crook of Harry’s neck. He doesn’t even change breathing patterns, just stays completely dead to the world. 

Harry figures he can go one night without brushing his teeth, grateful he at least had the foresight to dress him in his Spider-Man pajamas before starting the film. He tucks him into bed, kisses his forehead, then leaves with the hall light turned on to scare away any Little Boy-Munching Monsters. Harry is thoroughly exhausted, but manages to keep his eyes open long enough to send Liam a confirmation text. 

I’m in !! :) 

** 

Harry really wishes PTA meetings weren’t on Saturdays. One, it’s the only day he has truly off. The bakery can call him at any time on Sundays to ask him questions or relay specific orders to him he has to write down and remember for Monday. Saturday, however, is his true day off, and he already spends two hours of it at Jamie’s footie practice with Niall and his daughter. Harry feels guilty, not being there, like somehow he’s not supporting Jamie enough by not being there to watch him do drills and eat shitty concession stand food with Niall. Harry’s eating the concession stand food, not Jamie. Though he does do that after practice, sometimes, when Harry knows they have to make a grocery trip. 

So Niall had taken Jamie to practice, and Jamie hadn’t been bothered at all, which ouch. But now Harry is here, signing in at the office, and Liam is waiting in room C103 with the rest of the PTA doing… Whatever it is that PTA parents do. 

If Harry is honest, he’s not all that interested, but he wants to be involved. He loves Jamie, feels terrible for having to uproot him from his small town in Cheshire. But when London’s biggest and most beloved bakery chain offers you a job as assisting pastry chef you say yes. So here he was, trying to make amends for ripping Jamie from his childhood home at age eight. Jeez, Harry is a true monster. A proper boogeyman. 

Liam is sat at the front of the room, behind a fold-up table with two other mums. Not that Liam is a mum, just that there are two next to him. Harry hadn’t even realized Liam was so important in the PTA, didn’t know he helped run it. Harry had been counting on sitting beside him and daydreaming about going home and catching a Star Wars marathon on telly. 

Wow. Harry is very, very Dad-Like. 

“Harry! Have a seat,” Liam greets, much to Harry’s dismay, as the meeting had apparently just started and everyone’s rapt attention had been on Liam. Now, with Liam’s rapt attention on Harry, their rapt attention had shifted to Harry as well. Brilliant. 

Harry feels like he should wave. Why would he wave? He’s not the bloody Queen. He shoves his halfway raised hand into the pocket of his jeans and swallows. 

He offers Liam a small, weak smile and follows where he’s pointing. He ducks his head as he scrambles to the seat in the back row, farthest to the left he can get and closest to an Emergency Exit. The eyes are off him, and the meeting has begun, but Harry still feels his heart hammering. Jesus, is this what it’s like to give presentations or walk into class late? It’s been so long. No wonder Jamie hates school. 

Harry hadn’t realized he was spacing out until the bloke next to him is clearing his throat to get his attention. Harry shoots him a surprised look, has no time to register that okay the guy next to him must definitely not be a dad he is far too cute, before Liam’s words reach his brain. 

Liam had mentioned Harry’s profession. Is Liam trying to get him killed? 

“Uh, yeah,” Harry says quickly, the buttons on the back of his jeans scraping against the plastic chair as he shifts. “I’ve been a pastry chef for years now, though I’ve dabbled in other stuff.” 

Liam looks positively proud as a mum, beaming like Harry is his first born and he’s just won a Nobel Peace Prize. “Ah, Harry don’t be modest, your brownies are the reason I don’t look twenty-one anymore.” That coaxes a few laughs from the more laidback parents, but the room is still awkwardly stiff. 

“Harry will definitely be helpful for the Bake Sale we’re having in two weeks,” Liam continues and Harry relaxes into his chair once the topic safely leaves him, again. He doesn’t realize the bloke next to him is still staring at him for a good few minutes, and when he does, he’s once again taken aback by how un-dad-like the guy looks. 

“Is there something on my cheek?” Harry whispers, scrubbing a hand quickly down his face. This makes the guy chuckle, brushing away fringe that had flopped in front of his eyes. 

“Just a lingering blush,” the guy says, teasing lilt tinged with something… Else. Something that doesn’t sit right in Harry’s stomach. “So you’re a big shot, huh? Here to save our meager bake sales with your magical pastry-making powers?” 

Harry laughs a bit nervously, rubbing a sweaty palm down the front of his jeans. God, this guy sounds jealous. If he wasn’t quite so attractive, Harry would just turn away and ignore him. But. Harry’s thirty-four, he’s not dead. 

“Liam’s just trying to make me feel welcomed, I guess,” Harry answers truthfully, keeping his voice low as to not get caught making idle conversation while the meeting unfolds around them. “I’ve just moved here with my son, James.” 

The bloke is silent for a moment then says, “James Styles?” 

Harry is taken aback, and also very alarmed. “Uh, yeah. How did you-” 

“He stuck gum in my son’s hair the other day,” the bloke deadpans, leaning back in his chair. His blue eyes stay stuck on Liam, yet Harry feels exposed. And angry. And furious. 

“Jamie would never do that!” Harry bursts out indignantly, earning a glare from the mum in front of him. He shoots her an apologetic smile, to which she huffs at and turns back around. Harry turns his attention back to… 

“You’re Daniel’s dad then?” 

Daniel’s Dad drops a curt nod, still not looking over at Harry. 

“Your son broke my son’s crayons and I had to buy him a new box!” Harry hisses, keeping his voice low this time. Daniel’s Dad’s head whips around, eyes comically round. 

“Danny wouldn’t touch your son’s crayons, who do you think you are-” 

“Mr. Styles? Mr. Tomlinson?” It’s one of the ladies beside Liam, Mrs. Something-or-Other. “Is there a problem?” 

Harry sulks back in his chair, feeling scolded and ridiculous. Daniel’s Dad, Mr. Tomlinson, seems to feel the same way. Or, at least, he’s good at acting because not five seconds later he’s muttering, low enough for only Harry to hear, “My cupcakes are going to own your cupcake’s arse.” 

Harry grinds his teeth together, keeping his eyes trained on Liam’s smiling face as he bites back, “In your fucking dreams.” 

** 

Harry has rung Liam twice since the meeting, had gotten his voicemail twice, and promptly hung up. He’s sunk low enough as to complain about it to Jamie, who’s currently kicking balls at Harry’s head in their backyard. He says it’s practice, but Harry suspects he likes to hear Harry scream when the ball nearly smacks him in the head. Harry has already worn through one pair of goalie gloves. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t go anymore, Dad,” Jamie says after a moment, shrugging. “It’s not worth it if Danny’s dad is such a prick.” 

Harry frowns, knocking away the ball coming for his cheek and making a feeble attempt at scolding his son. “Jamie, language, for the billionth time. Where do you even get these words from?” 

Jamie catches the ball when Harry tosses it back instead of kicking it, not trusting his feet even for a simple pass. “Uncle Niall.” Well, that makes sense. 

“You aren’t allowed to see Uncle Niall ever again,” Harry grumbles, getting back into position between the two oak trees in their backyard. It’s an annoyingly hot day for late August, and Harry’s sweated through two of his #1 Dad T-Shirts. And he is number one! He’ll show that Tomlinson and his crayon-breaking tornado of a child. 

“I can’t just back out now,” Harry sighs, yelping as the ball smacks him in the ear before he can throw his arms in front of his face to block it. Jamie nearly doubles over in laughter, cheeks flushed from the physical exertion, heat, and general amusement. “I swear, you’re tryng to hit me! Anyway, I need to prove to Tomlinson I am the best dad, the best PTA member, and the best cupcake maker. He said his cupcakes would kick my, erm, bum! I can’t just let him get away with that, James.” 

Jamie rolls his eyes, retrieving the ball when Harry makes no move to get it, dribbling it back to the edge of the yard. “You are so dramatic. Just bring some cupcakes from the bakery, use their fancy ovens, and bring ‘em to the sale.” 

Harry sits heavily in the grass, groping for his water bottle. He takes a sip, brushing away the prickly blades of grass poking at his calf. “I can’t,” he says, tossing his water bottle aside. “Liam said that the whole PTA bakes them together, in the school cafeteria, and kids take pictures for like YearBook and stuff. They supply the ingredients and everything, it’s awful.” 

Jamie comes over and pats his dad’s shoulder solemnly, stubby fingers barely spanning the width. He’s a small boy for his age, but what he lacks in size he makes up for in personality. Harry feels his chest swell, just like it does every time he realizes just how great his boy is. 

His boy who had his bleeding crayons snapped to bits by Tomlinson’s son. There goes Harry’s blood pressure again. 

“You’ll do great, Dad, really,” Jamie promises, knocking his shin-pad against his father’s arm. “Uncle Liam’ll help I’m sure.” 

That’s right. Harry has leverage. He’s got people on the Inside. Harry has Connections. 

Harry needs a life. 

Liam calls Harry back the next day, at five in the morning, rousing him from a beautiful dream of Tomlinson crying into Harry’s mountain of tastefully superior cupcakes. Or maybe Harry was dreaming literally anything else. He’d like to think it’s the former, and that it’s a good omen. 

“Jesus, Li, why are you up? I have another ten minutes,” Harry grumbles into the phone, catching sight of his wild bed head and pillow-creased cheeks in the dresser mirror. He hears Jamie snoring down the hall, leaning back into his pillows. 

“I wake up at four every morning to get a run in,” Liam says matter-of-factly, because of course he does. “I dropped my phone in a fucking toilet and had to wait for the company to send me a new one, so I didn’t see your calls until late last night.” 

“When I would have preferred you to call,” Harry points out. 

“Whatever. What’s up?” 

“I need your help to destroy Tomlinson.” 

Liam’s burst of laughter crackles on the other end of the line. It does nothing to boost Harry’s confidence. 

“You mean Louis? Why would you want to destroy him, he’s coaching footie for some of the older kids in secondary school and he’s constantly bringing in money for the school with small sponsorships for his teams. Plus, he’s one of the funniest blokes i’ve ever met.” 

Harry cannot actually believe this right now, Liam is a traitor. He’s playing for the other team, no pun intended. Actually, you know what? Fuck it. Pun fully intended. See, Harry is ten-times funnier than Louis. How dare Liam even say that! 

“Harry? You still there? Why do you want to destroy Louis, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

Harry can’t come up with a proper response, it being barely five in the morning and the fact that he’s just been emotionally wounded by one of his best mates, so all he manages to sputter out is a weak, “His son snapped Jamie’s crayons in half!” 

Harry hangs up on Liam when he starts laughing so hard he can’t seem to stop. 

You know what? Fuck Liam. Fuck having Connections. Harry is going to pound Louis and his cupcakes into an icing-covered pulp, all on his own. This is what he majored in. 

Harry finds himself barely registering making Jamie an easy brekkie of toast and eggs, or seeing him onto the bus, or even driving to the bakery. The wheels in his head won’t stop turning until he spits out something worthy, and he’ll be damned if he loses a thought because he stopped to consider which pair of trousers he should put on. 

He’s bent over the counter just after opening, before even the breakfast rush have found their way in, scribbling in a notebook he normally keeps for special orders and catering jobs. Zayn finds him there when he surfaces from the kitchen, doing whatever it is cake artists do. Zayn watches him scribble for a while without interruption, his shaggy hair hidden under a ridiculous hairnet. 

“Haz, you okay? You’re about to rip the damn paper.” 

Harry just grunts, chews on his eraser, then adds a few more ideas to his list. It’s another five minutes before he finishes, and Zayn hasn’t left, so Harry shoves the notebook into his hands. 

“Which of these cupcakes could destroy an army of enemies in one go?” 

Zayn, because he is Zayn and he is everything wonderful in this world, just takes the notebook and regards Harry’s harsh scribbles seriously. “Any particular occasion for this enemy-crushing or is it just seasonal?” 

Harry sighs, not exactly feeling like retelling his revenge for Jamie’s crayon box. So he just says, “There’s a PTA bake sale and this other parent claims his cupcakes will kick my cupcake’s arse, which is fucking ridiculous because cupcakes don’t even have arses. And even if they did, my cupcake’s arse would be so damn good he’d be too busy eating it to kick it. So.” 

Zayn is now regarding him over the edge of the journal, eyebrow raised. He waits a beat. “So I’m assuming this dad is extremely fit.” 

Harry collapsed onto the counter, burying his face in his hands with a groan. “Unfairly so. And he’s an utter twat, on top of that, and his child broke Jamie’s crayons. So as you can see, this is very serious, and I need to figure out what recipe I’m going to use so I can text Liam the ingredients I need. Which are supposed to be ‘limited’, whatever that means.” 

Zayn nods his head very seriously and turns his attention back to the list. It’s silent for a moment, and Harry can hear the rest of the staff banging around in the kitchen. Harry has to help an early bird customer who just wants two blueberry scones to go, and when he returns to where Zayn is tucked in the corner of the counter, Harry’s heart starts thumping. Zayn is smiling, quite devilishly. Harry loves Zayn’s devilish smile, at least when it’s not directed at his own expense. 

“I have an idea,” Zayn says triumphantly. “But we might technically be cheating. But we also might technically not be cheating. Sound okay?” 

Harry chews on the side of his mouth for a moment, hesitating. Then he remembers his poor cupcakes arses’. Cupcakes don’t even have arses! 

“Lay it on me, Cake Picasso.” 

** 

It’s the day of the bake sale and Harry has never been more nervous. He’d dropped Jamie off at Niall’s house before driving to the school and now, with a tupperware tucked under his arm, he’s a little unsure of himself. The ‘you’ll do great, remember to heat up the Secret Ingredient before you add it, and DON’T let Liam see it until after it’s been added. Love ya man!’ text he’d received from Zayn just twenty minutes earlier was doing little to calm Harry’s jangled nerves. 

This is what his life has become. He’s become emotionally invested in a PTA bake sale to help fund the school’s Astronomy club, which why is that even a club? Harry needs to get a grip. And he will. Right after he uses his said current grip to force-feed Tomlinson his delicious cupcakes. 

Harry signs in once again at the front office and makes his way to the cafeteria. He spots Liam by the entrance to the kitchen, talking adamantly to a woman wearing a terrible pair of mom jeans and a fading Disney World sweatshirt. Harry had gone as far as to make sure his curls were laid out nicely across his shoulders and had chosen a shirt with almost no odd stains or holes. 

Not that he’s trying to impress Louis, that’s crazy. Louis is Public Enemy Number One. Louis is the bane to Harry’s cupcake making existence. Louis has spotted Harry and is wandering over, wearing ridiculously tight pants and a tank-top that is far too low cut for Harry’s liking. 

Harry’s getting himself ready for an attack when he realizes he’s got the Secret Ingredient tucked under his jacket, bulging hideously from his side like a funny-looking tumor. He panics, looking around for an escape route, and settles on turning and bolting towards the men’s toilets. Louis stops his his tracks and watches him go, a curious expression on his face that melts into that of disbelief and then a smirk. 

Louis thinks he’s intimidated Harry. Harry can’t help but feel, as he stares at the incredibly tiny urinals meant for small children, that he’s got a point. Harry still has to smuggle his container in the kitchen, hide it somewhere nearby, and heat it up with nobody noticing. Easy, right?  
Yeah. Okay. 

Harry pokes his head around the corner, making sure the coast is clear before hurrying back into the cafeteria. This time, when he gets there, it’s empty and the door is standing wide open. Harry slips inside, hearing Liam’s voice from somewhere down the hall. He glances around quickly, searching for a place to stash his tupperware container. He can’t find anywhere that won’t be opened or used while in the process of baking, so he has to settle for setting it on top of the fridge and pushing it back as far as it’ll go without being seen and not being lost entirely from Harry’s grasp. 

Harry grins to himself, and nearly bites his tongue off when someone starts to speak behind him. 

“Are you still hiding from me, Styles?” It’s Tomlinson, of course, and he sounds bored. When Harry turns he is mere inches away, his arms crossed over his chest, which is completely unfair. Harry’s not a teenage anymore, he doesn’t get a stiffy from a light breeze, but the way Tomlinson’s arms look like that is about twenty strong gusts of wind put together and Harry’s a little overwhelmed. 

“I wasn’t hiding from you,” Harry says lamely, heart still hammering from actually smuggling in his ingredient successfully. He should be hired by M16 or something. He’d be a great spy. 

Louis lifts a delicate brow disbelievingly, but surprisingly doesn’t push it. At the prior PTA meeting, Harry had the unfortunate pleasure of sitting directly in front of him, and he didn’t know one straw could produce that many spitballs. No wonder his kid is like the Hulk in Primary. The boy’s dad is infuriatingly childish. 

“Whatever you say, Styles. Liam has been askin’ ‘round if anyone seen you, and I guess I have the unfortunate task of delivering ya.” 

Harry shrugs. “It’s not exactly pleasant for either of us.” 

That doesn’t have the desired effect of maybe an eye roll or a tight-lipped frown. Instead, Louis smiles. And there’s either no malice behind it, or he’s good at hiding it. 

“C’mon then, can’t have Liam burning the bleedin’ place down because ‘is star baker has forgotten to show up on time. Again.” 

Louis leads him towards the back of the kitchen where a group of fifteen or so parents are standing huddled around Liam, all their expressions ranging from Martha Stewart Joy to I’d Rather Be In Charge of Bath Night Horror. There’s two older looking children standing off to the side, fiddling with bulky cameras. They must be for the YearBook. 

“There he is!” Liam says when Harry appears, and this time only a handful of parents actually bother to glance in Harry’s direction. “Get lost?” 

“Something like that,” Harry murmurs, and for some reason that makes Louis giggle. Like, actually giggle. As in this guy is probably around Harry’s age and he’s giggling. Harry wants to throttle him. 

Liam goes on to explain that everyone will be paired up with someone else at a station, and that they can chose to work together and make the same type of cupcake or make different flavors. They each already sent Liam a list of ingredients they would need so no one would double-up. Liam had been bewildered when Harry had texted him the simple ingredients to Strawberry Buttercream Frosting and an unoriginal Chocolate Cupcake recipe. Harry had sent back about ten salsa dancer emojis in a row and Liam didn’t badger him about it any longer. 

Of course, because God hates him (or maybe it’s Liam, he did pick partners) Harry is paired with Louis in a station. Harry claims his supplies and hurries to the station closest where he’d hidden his container, Louis trailing behind while he fumbles with carrying his own armload of ingredients. 

“What are you makin’ then?” Louis asks after a few moments, once the whirring of electric whisks and the banging of pans have filled the air. He’s smoothing out his creased recipe, biting his lip as he reads over it, seeming to tick off ingredients. 

“None of your business,” Harry shoots, and feels silly when Louis laughs. It’s like Louis is always laughing at him, now. The first time they’d met, Harry had seemed to get under Louis’ skin as much as Louis did under Harry’s. Now, everything Harry did crinkled Louis’ eyes. They were wonderful, really, the crow’s feet expression lines- not that Harry notices, or cares. Jeez. 

“Well I’m making red velvet,” Louis says, unbothered as he busies himself with preheating the oven. “Ready to meet your match, Baker Boy?” 

“If you’re ready to eat your words along with my Alpha Cupcakes, Tomlinson.” 

It’s like a gun goes off. Or, at least, in Harry’s head one does. He sorts out all his ingredients and gets to work on the actual cake part first, lining standard muffin tins with with paper liners. He whisks flour, baking powder, and salt in a large tin bowl, refusing to even glance at Louis’ part of the station. He does pause to smile toothily for a little girl who asks for him to pose with his bowl, and he suspects her giggling is because Louis has given him a pair of bunny ears while his head was turned. 

He’s managed to place the butter and the chocolate in a heatproof mixer bowl and is getting ready to set it over a pot of simmering water and stir until the chocolate melts when Louis breaks his steady hum of baking. 

“Hey, Styles, how do you whisk?” 

Harry huffs out a dry laugh, never taking his eyes from his own bowl. “Ha ha, you’re truly hilarious, Tomlinson. A joke for the history books!” 

Harry sees Louis shake his head from the corner of his eye but still doesn’t break his baking haze entirely. If this is part of Louis’ strategy to worm his way into Harry’s head while he’s cooking and cock up, well then Harry is one step ahead. 

“Alright, whatever you say, mate.” 

It’s not too much later that Harry is dividing the batter among the muffin cups and putting them in to bake for about twenty or so minutes. As he transitions to making the frosting, he chances a glance at Louis’ workstation and it’s in… chaos. Harry isn’t the only person who notices the state, either, and a mum who Harry only knows as Judy comes huffing over. 

“Mr. Tomlinson, please try and keep your area clean!” she scolds, yanking open a drawer and handing Louis a towel. Harry would be mortified, but Louis only looks amused, throwing the towel over his shoulder. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Waters, it won’t happen again.” 

“It better not,” Judy threatens and then huffs back to her station, all five feet of her oozing frustration. 

“What a twat,” Louis murmurs under his breath, laughing a bit, and Harry finds himself agreeing before he can stop himself. 

“Like she’s one to talk, what with all the blue icing she’s gotten onto her eyelids,” Harry says, shaking his head sadly, and Louis barks out a surprised laugh. 

“You dolt, that’s her eyeshadow,” Louis hisses, sounding scandalized. Harry can’t help the satisfied grin that creeps onto his face at the knowledge of making someone laugh, and then Louis is talking again. “Ah, you have dimples. Of course you do.” 

Before Harry can ask Louis to elaborate, Liam is coming around to check on his progress. Harry shakes his head. He needs to get back into his rhythm. He focuses on the frosting again, tuning out Louis’ whines as Liam doubles over at the sight of his horrendously dirty work space. 

Twenty minutes later, Harry is taking his cupcakes out to cool and the frosting is done. Louis has just finally managed to get his own tray in the oven, checking the print-out recipe and then punching in a time. 

“I don’t know how you do this for a living,” Louis says after a beat, glancing down at his batter-slick fingers. “I’m sweating even more than I do on the pitch.” 

Harry doesn’t want to think about Louis hot and sweaty on a football pitch, and luckily he doesn’t have to for long, as his batter had finished cooling and he could start icing. 

It takes him about as long as it takes for Louis’ own cupcakes to finish baking, and he’s finishing one final swirl as Louis dumps the tray of burnt cupcakes onto the counter. Harry freezes. He’s won. He doesn’t have to taste those damn cupcakes to know he’s one, they look like charcoal hockey pucks. He’s won. 

Louis doesn’t react like someone who has lost. He’s nearly wheezing, wiping tears from his eyes and leaving behind a trail of flour. “Buggering Christ, I have got to be the worst baker in all of England. In all of Europe, for that matter. Oh well.” 

Is Harry hearing him correctly? Has he gone into cardiac arrest, or accidentally smashed himself in the head with a wooden spoon and died? Did Louis just say ‘oh well’? 

Another outburst of giggles brings Harry back from his thoughts. Louis is watching Harry’s face, his nose scrunched. “Styles, are you okay? You look like someone shot your dog or kicked your nan. Or both.” 

Harry splutters for a moment, at a lost for words, still clutching a cupcake in his hand. “What happened to your cupcakes beating my cupcakes arse? What happened to our competition?” 

Louis’ eyebrows furrow at that, and he’s still laughing, which is really pissing Harry off. “Oh, that was all talk, I was still cross over the whole gum thing. Plus, Liam’s my mate and he was praising you like you’d found a cure for ball cancer or some shit. I can’t bake a decent cupcake to save me damn life.” 

“So I worried myself for two weeks, all for nothing?” Harry concludes, watching Louis as he shrugs. 

“I ‘spose so. Congrats MasterChef, you won.” 

“But I cheated!” Harry blurts out, scrambling for his tupperware on top of the fridge. He manages to slide it down, still clutching the damn cupcake, and pops the lid with his fingers. Louis takes a step closer, curious, and finds dozens of little heart-shaped brownies inside that Harry had made just that morning. 

“I was going to put these on top of the cupcakes,” Harry explains, shoving the container towards Louis’ face. “I brought in outside ingredients that’s cheating.” 

“It was never a competition though,” Louis points out, sounding genuinely perplexed. “You can’t cheat at a bake sale. You just aren’t allowed to bring in outside ingredients so Liam can mark which have shit like nuts in them that could be allergic to the kids who buy them.” 

Which.. Okay that makes sense. Harry drops the tupperware container on the counter. A large, hot ball of something is burning in his chest. He has no idea what it is, where it came from, he just knows he has a cupcake in his hand. And Louis’ face is two inches away. 

So Harry shoves the cupcake straight into Louis’ nose, arse and frosting and all. 

Louis stands there for a moment, strawberry frosting caked across his face, seemingly paralysed. He jolts to life when he inhales sharply and icing shoots up his nose. 

“Harry, what the fuck-” Liam is yelling from somewhere to Harry’s left, so he turns to stammer out an explanation, when something hard smacks him square in forehead. 

Harry reels backward, rubbing at the spot that had made contact with the rock, only to discover it’s not a rock it’s one of Louis’ ruined cupcakes, and Louis is already hurling another. 

Harry yelps and ducks, reaching for one of his own cupcakes and launching it aimlessly. He misses, by a longshot, and manages to sideswipe Judy’s graying hair. She shrieks like she’s been shot, scrambling for a wet flannel, but Harry doesn’t watch long enough to find out if she finds one. Louis is yelling curses, his face flushed and eyes flashing. 

“You are such a child!” he’s yelling, hurling another Cupcake-Rock like a fucking missel. Harry moves to the left and it sails over his right shoulder, pinging against the fridge. 

“Me?!” he asks, outraged, tossing another cupcake. This one catches Louis mildly off-guard while he’s reaching for more ammunition and manages to cling to the front of his Skate Tough tank. “You’re the one who tried to say cupcakes had fucking arses!” 

“What does that even mean?” Liam yells from nowhere, throwing his hands up in frustration. Before he can get in between them, Harry reaches into his bowl of leftover frosting and flings a huge clump. It hits Louis right in the eye, pink icing sliding down his face in globs like fake horror-movie paint. 

“Oh my god,” Louis is yelling, licking frosting from his lips. He’s lunging for his tray again when Liam finally manages to wedge his way between them. Harry barely has a moment to recognize childish laughter and the shutter of cameras going off. 

“You are adults!” Liam is screaming, to no avail. Harry feels awful instantly, but he’ll be damned if he let Louis away with this. 

“I’m sorry, Li, the bakery will supply some cupcakes on my pay,” Harry apologizes, brushing off crumbs from Louis’ Rock-Cupcakes. “I can start cleaning-” 

“Both of you get out!” Liam shouts, face red, and Harry hasn’t heard his mate this livid in a long time. He hangs his head in shame, nodding towards the brownies. 

“Don’t forget to heat them up before he add them on top, okay?” 

Five minutes later he’s outside on a bench, toeing at a pebble and feeling ashamed, when Louis joins him. He’s still got a bit of pink icing clinging to the tips of his hair and in his scruff, and Harry is hit with a fresh wave of guilt. 

“Tomlinson- Louis- I’m sorry,” Harry starts and Louis holds up a hand, the barest hint of a smile lifting the corners of his lips. 

“It’s my fault,” he says, sighing. He drops down onto the bench beside Harry, biting at his thumbnail. “I goaded you into it, made it seem bigger than it was, when it was just me being pissy and not being able to handle being near a bloke I found attractive. So I’m sorry, it’s my fault, and I told Liam as such.” 

Harry really wishes he could focus on the fact that Louis is apologizing to him, but that’s shadowing in comparison to what Louis just confessed. Louis finds Harry attractive. Louis was like a little boy with a crush, poking at Harry’s buttons and pulling his hair because he didn’t know how to behave himself. 

The feeling it gives Harry is as sweet as any cupcake they could have whipped up in that kitchen. Alright, maybe not Louis’ cupcakes, but it’s still a nice sentiment. 

After a heavy moment of silence, Harry finally speaks up. “You are a God awful baker.” 

Louis lets out a shaky laugh, tilting his head back toward the sky. “Yeah, could have figured that one out meself, mate. I’m not half bad at cooking, it’s just the sweets that get me. Danny hates it.” 

Harry finds himself grinning, turning to face Louis fully. Louis must notice the shift, or feel Harry’s knee brush his, because he opens his eyes and glances over at Harry’s face. “I bet he’s upset, proper miffed that his Da’ can’t make him a birthday cake each year. Well, I do love children. I guess I could teach you some basics, if you want. If you don’t mind having dinner with me beforehand, as I hate to eat sweets before a meal.” 

Louis’ small smile breaks into a beaming, crinkly-eyed masterpiece. “I’m only agreeing to this so I can come to your home and make sure every single crayon is destroyed.” 

Harry laughs much harder than he should. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> please leave your comments/kudos or don't. just come beat me up. :)


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